The Wind Through the Stars
by LA Knight
Summary: When someone hires a cruiser pilot to do a job, it's best not to ask too many questions. That's Flight Academy policy. But Sayuri can't help wondering what Valemon's hiding when she and Boreal, her living ship, agree to help Valemon rescue a kidnapped princess and get more than they bargained for. A sci-fi adaptation of "East of the Sun, West of the Moon."


_**Author's Note:**__ so this fic is a science-fiction adaptation of a fairy tale, "East of the Sun, West of the Moon." I really like science-fiction when it's done well, so I wanted to try my hand at it. I've done lots of fantasy and paranormal before, but I've only ever done sci-fi once, in a short story, and that was almost 10 years ago. So here's another try at it. I'm adapting the story a little bit, however. Instead of a girl falling in love with a guy who's been turned into a polar bear and then going to the North Wind to get to the island of the trolls, I have a young man trying to find a princess who's been kidnapped by aliens from an arctic planet, and a newly-made cruiser captain piloting a ship called_ The North Wind. _Like brilliant writers such as Merissa Meyer, author of_ Cinder _and_ Scarlet, _I'm trying to take an old tale and give it new life. Hopefully I succeed. I'll let you judge._

_Sincerely,_

_LA Knight_

_PS - while writing this chapter, I listened to the following music in no particular order:_

_Ice Dance from_ Edward Scissorhands; _Turn Loose the Mermaids (Instrumental) by Nightwish; Bourne Vivaldi by the Piano Guys; The Bioluminescence of the Night from_ James Cameron's Avatar; _Sayuri's Theme (Full) from_ Memoirs of a Geisha; _Charades from_ Lady in the Water; _Flight of the Raven by David Arkenstone  
The Crow, the Owl, and the Dove (instrumental) by Nightwish; Main Title from_ The Secret Garden (1993); _Piper's Lullaby from_ The Secret of Roan Inish; _and Moonlight by the Piano Guys.  
_

.

**The Wind Through the Stars**

**Chapter One  
**_**Sayuri**_

.

.

No one flies like me.

It's always been easy for me to fly – as easy as a hawk spreading strong wings to catch the wind. There is nothing like flying an org-cruiser. We've had organic cruisers – living, thinking spaceships that came from a far off planet – since before I was born. The twenty-second century, at least. It takes a certain way of thinking to be able to fly something that has its own brain, though. Training begins early, at age four, and ends anywhere between seventeen and twenty, depending on how well you do in the Academy.

You have to test into the Academy in the first place. The tests were easy for me, too, like playing a game. I had no idea those fun, little games would lead me to where I am now – striding through the corridors of Polaris Station, my heavy flight boots _clacking_ on the hard floor with every step, ready to embark on my first official voyage as the captain of my own cruiser.

Graduation came and went in a blur. Neither of my parents were there; my mother died years ago, and it's difficult for my father, a well-known research scientist, to get off-planet long enough to fly all the way out to Polaris Station. But because of the achievements of my various classmates, the graduation was recorded, so I know my father saw me achieve the rank of Cruiser Captain. Even though it was only through a viewport, I know he saw Admiral Kosh pin my captain's wings to the lapel of my crisp, new silver jacket.

Boreal, my spaceship, watched me via viewport as well – I'd felt him throughout the ceremony. I've always been able to feel him monitoring me. That's what happens when you've been friends for fifteen years. I'd have been surprised if he hadn't decided to keep an eye on the graduation proceedings. It isn't like he could've actually attended the ceremony in person, after all.

As I walk through the corridors toward the docking station, I let myself remember graduating from Flight Academy. The stage lights had shone bright and hot on my face. Pride had turned the Admiral's steely grey eyes into something softer, gentler, for just a moment as she'd stopped in front of me to bestow my new rank. I remember the golden light glancing off the auriferous metal etched into the shape of a pair of wings and the soft _pop_ of the dual pins piercing the canvas of my crisp jacket.

The gold wings still feel heavy with promise. I wish I could explain to my dad how that feels. How the weight of the wings sends electricity crackling through my blood because this new weight on my chest means that I'm an adult now. I'm a pilot. No, not just a pilot. I'm a _captain_.

Thinking about my new rank, and the freedom it gives me, makes me smile a little. I've lived on Polaris Station for the last fifteen years. I've been off-station several times for field trips and test flights, but always with an instructor and, until the last two years, a crew. Finally I'll be allowed to slip between the brilliance of the stars and roam space the way Boreal and I have always wanted.

The metal gangplank clatters under my boots as I stride toward my ship, who sits in Docking Bay Seven. I'm relatively alone in the docking station; org-cruisers only require one crew member. They can take more if they choose – graduates who rank as pilots have to travel with an actual crew, but captains can fly alone – but Boreal and I have always done fine on our own. The fact that he has a brain like an encyclopedia makes the idea of being out alone in space less unnerving than it might be otherwise.

When I was younger and I'd come to the docking station to visit, I'd run the last dozen or so feet between me and Boreal and yell his name. He would chirp and whistle at me in the Morse-Code-like language of the organic ships.

Now I am a captain, and I shouldn't run. Shouldn't, but do.

The gangplank shakes a little under each pounding footstep as I race toward my oldest friend. I can feel the shock of every step blast through my body.

_This is real,_ the clanking _thud_ of my footsteps says. _This is real, it's not a dream. We made it. We finally made it._ I laugh out loud as I skid to a stop in front of the sleek, massive ship that is all mine. My ship, my friend, my family since I was a little girl.

Boreal's hull shines silver with blue ripples, like the folded steel of the samurai sword my mother took with her from the planet of New Japan when she married my father. I can see my reflection in the glossy metallic surface. Only my ship's official name in any way alters the perfect surface of his hull – _The North Wind_. The words have been laser-etched with an android's precision in beautiful calligraphic writing that is nearly as tall as I am.

"Looking good, Boreal," I murmur. I touch his hull, warm as my own skin and smooth as polished glass under my fingertips. He's been polished for our first official flight as captain and cruiser.

He gives a crisp, two-note whistle. I know what he means; he's admiring my new captain's uniform.

Once a pilot graduates from Polaris Station Flight Academy, they can do what they want with their appearance. Until graduation, you wear the standard pilot uniform of white shirt with your information printed on it, black Academy jacket, black pants, and black shoes with short hair. The Academy buzzes boys' hair almost to their scalp and cuts girls' hair to their chins.

My hair's still short, but it'll grow out on this trip. And I love the captain's uniform – black shirt, silver captain's jacket with the gold wings, black pants with a slim silver stripe down the sides, and black knee-boots. I look good, but I'll look better once I can shrug out of the jacket.

At the Academy, we wear shirts of vid-fabric that display our class-rank, our names, and any other pertinent information on the front. The long-sleeve black shirt I wear now is plain, without any mini-screen displays, which I want to enjoy. For the first time, my personal data isn't on display to anyone who wants to see it. Even though I technically still work for the Academy, and they'll take a percentage of whatever compensation I get for jobs done as a private cruiser pilot, I don't have to _look_ like I work for them, unless I ever have to take a mission for them. That's part of the rules of enrollment: parents or legal guardians pay tuition, which is pretty steep, but once a pilot graduates, we still owe dues to the place that trained us and gave us our cruisers in the first place.

I grin at my ship and give the Academy salute – three fingers to the corner of my right eyebrow. I know he can see me on his monitors.

"Permission to come aboard, Cruiser Boreal?"

Another chirping little whistle, one I know means, Permission granted. I grin wider and go to take my first steps onto the ship that is now officially mine.

β

The air in the docking bay is chilly, because only a few meters of metal alloy and high-density insulation separate people from the vast iciness of outer space. When I step off the loading ramp and into Boreal's entry-bay, the warmth of the org-cruiser's interior chases the chill from my cool cheeks and warms my fingertips. I let my knuckles graze the entry-bay wall.

Org-cruisers are different from regular ships. I've been on both, and I can never get used to the inanimate ships used by the military and transportation companies and the like. Boreal's walls vibrate faintly, even when his engines are cold and sleeping. Energy hums through him in slow pulses – like a heartbeat. When I was a little girl in my first few years at the Academy, before Boreal got too big to stay in my dormitory with me, I would fall asleep to the steady rhythm of that mechanical beat.

Standard ships are cold metal, wires, electricity and ions and everything else that gives false life to man-made machines. But Boreal...he is a living, breathing, thinking person. He's not flesh and blood like me, but the living alloy that encases the delicate wires that act as the synapses for his nervous system is warm to the touch on the inside as well as out.

As I leave the small entry-bay and step into the shuttle-lift that will take me to the bridge, the floor shifts like the gel mattresses we had at the Academy, molding around my boots to cushion my feet. I'm used to it after almost five years of piloting my ship.

I lean back against the featureless metal of the lift and let my head touch the smooth alloy. A sigh wells up in me and slips out; I don't bother trying to stop it. Ever since I'd first set foot on Boreal's deck when I was thirteen, when he was finally big enough to board, I'd felt out of place anywhere else but here. This ship is my sanctuary. My home. It's the so-called "curse" of org-cruiser pilots – once we step onto our bonded ship's deck for the first time, we're never at home on-planet again.

I'm okay with that. One of the things they test for when a parent wants to enter their child into the Academy in the first place is a predisposition for wandering, a restlessness that makes the bonding process easier on both pilot and cruiser. I tested high in that regard.

The lift comes to a graceful halt. Sometimes when Boreal is feeling playful, he'll stop the lift and then give it a jerk as I'm stepping out, to see if I'll trip. He doesn't do that this time. This moment is too important for any kind of pranks or silliness.

When I walk onto the bridge, the first thing I see is the captain's chair in front of the massive viewport screen. A bank of touch-monitors and machines, white screens with a thousand rainbows of icons against silver metal, surround the chair in a half-circle from behind. Some of those machines hook up to my body, to make sure the connection to the ship doesn't overtax my various bio-systems, but that kind of thing is only an issue if a ship is ever under attack.

The rest of the touch-screens are so that if I ever have to, I can manually control my cruiser. I know how to fly Boreal both manually and with the link-up we normally share. I personally prefer the link-up. It's easier. A lot of pilots go manual, though.

There are other seats – for passengers, because one job a pilot often takes is private transportation for high-risk flyers, like politicians and royals. I know that on one of the lower levels are a row of cells for any bounties I might pick up over the course of my piloting career, as well. Right now I'm not sure if either of those options will work for me. I just want to enjoy the freedom of my first flight.

I take a breath and slide into the captain's seat, which is made of a gel-like plasticeen alloy that looks like glacial ice. Everything about my ship reflects its name, including its arctic colors of white, silver, and various shades of icy blue. Just like in the stories my mother used to read to me, I can go anywhere on the back of _The North Wind_.

Closing my eyes isn't necessary for what comes next, but it helps me shut out the world and fall more easily into the link-up. I barely feel it when the ultra-fine needle called a spine-jack slips between two of my vertebrae at the base of my skull. A tingle zings down my spine and sparks along every inch of my skin, tiny wisps of lightning dancing all over my body before fading away.

I connect with the ship.

The navigation system's displays spread across the darkness of my closed eyelids, sharply-drawn schematics in neon green, electric blue, and luminous pearl. I don't need to look through the viewport screen at the struts and sheets of unadorned metal that make up the docking station. I don't need to see the relative emptiness of surrounding space once I've cleared the docks. To fly like a silver hawk through the diamond fire of the stars, I don't need my eyes at all. I just need Boreal.

The schematics shift in my head like alchemical stars until I see loops and whorls of vivid ivory and aquamarine against the backdrop of star-studded space behind my closed eyes. Diagnostic readouts on our engines and our spatial drives and everything else zip through my brain, downloaded by the computer straight into my head.

_This_ is what I've been trained for all my life: to use my extra-sensory perception to link with the living computer inside my ship, and then merge with the mind that controls the engines hot as the heart of a star – the alien mind that controls the interlinked systems allowing the ship to slice so cleanly through the empty void of space. That's what the Academy trained all of us to do. But out of a class of over two-thousand candidates, no one flies quite like me.

When I speak to Boreal via the linked computer, the words print across my eyelids as if being typed into a mental word-processor, even though I can hear my own voice in my head, and hear his.

_All systems check out, Boreal?_

His words print back. _All systems check out, Sayuri._ It's the only time I can actually hear his voice, which is rich and soft, a rumbling sort of voice, like a lion purring. When I'm not jacked into the computer, he communicates through a condensed, audible form of Morse Code. All the cruisers do. It's something they learn in the Academy, just like we learn how to understand that mutated form of Morse.

When pilots-in-training receive their first ship in year one of the Academy, it's not a ship yet. They're called "fledglings" – miniature ships the size of an average human forearm. Organic cruisers were discovered on the small planet known as Weyrlyn III over three-hundred years ago; they live and grow like any creature. No one's sure how full-sized cruisers make little ships; asexual twinning, maybe, like certain plants and marine life. Nobody's ever been able to catch a ship creating another of its kind. Whenever pilots ask their bonded ships, the ships tell them it's private. But the Academy has never run out of fledglings to give to their trainee pilots.

Boreal was my fledgling. I got him the day I arrived with my parents for Academy Orientation. Part of learning to pilot an organic ship is being able to take care of a fledgling. If your fledgling dies during the first four years of training, before you turn eight years old, the Academy gives you a new one, but it seriously counts against you. If any fledglings die in the final decade of pilots' training, you're ousted out of the Academy.

A fledgling might be a lot of responsibility when you're four, but I'd managed to keep Boreal healthy and strong even back then. We're as tightly-knit as any cruiser and pilot out of the Academy. Part of me can't believe it's finally time for us to embark on our first solo flight together as captain and cruiser. The rest of me is straining against the urge to rip Boreal's engines to life and bust out of the docking station like a meteorite.

_You ready for this, Sayuri?_ Boreal asks me through the spine-jack.

_I'm ready,_ I say back. Then, out loud, I call it in to the docking station.

"Polaris Station, this is Cruiser Captain Sayuri Asbjørnsen of _The North Wind_, requesting permission to depart."

In my head, I hear Boreal snicker. He likes the nickname I gave him when I was only a little kid – pilot trainees are encouraged to name their fledgling cruisers, to help deepen the bond between them. Boreal was a character in a book my mother used to read to me before I'd been sent to the Academy. I found out years later that Boreal was also the name of the North Wind in a lot of myths. My Boreal still thinks that's funny; I'm not sure why. Org-tech humor?

"Captain Asbjørnsen, this is Polaris Station. Permission for departure granted. Grappler-cables disengaging now. Docking station is clear of traffic. Prepare for takeoff in ten." There's a pause, and I can almost hear the smile in the docking-stationeer's voice when she says, "Good luck, both of you."

"Thanks, Polaris Station."

Engines at one-hundred percent, Sayuri, Boreal says as my ship comes to life. The deck hums beneath my boots. I glide my fingertips over the smooth arms of the captain's seat and smile. Spatial scans look clear. Grappler-cables have disengaged. All systems are go. Ready for takeoff...Captain.

I smile wider, then laugh when an equal-sign and a capital D flash across the schematic readout for a moment. When he does that, it looks like Boreal's grinning at me. I know those symbols, and ones like them, are a form of code, something Terrans started doing in the twenty-first century. The language was once called "net-speak." The symbols are still known as "emoticons." It's nowhere near as common as it once was, but we studied it in Technological History at the Academy a few years back, and Boreal had downloaded the language specs into his data banks. He likes old things, especially old music. It's one of the many things we have in common.

Because this is brilliant, because this is perfect, I have to say the words out loud, even though I know Boreal would be able to hear me if I only thought them. I can feel the words, heavy in my mouth and sweet as the crystallized candy jewels from Shujarush II. There is one place we've been dying to go for a long time, and now we finally can.

"Cruiser Boreal, make for the Neo-York Colony, full speed ahead." Remembering a spaceship captain from one of my father's favorite classical programs from centuries past, I grin and add in a mock-British voice, "Engage."

Just before the engines actually engage, Boreal turns on music. I recognize the voice of Sam Tsui, a classic artist from a few centuries back, and grin wider. Boreal knows what I like.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Author's Note:


End file.
